


Becoming Real

by XILVerify



Series: Dolls [3]
Category: K-pop, VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Blood and Violence, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Team as Family, This is based on the Voodoo Doll MV ya'll what did you expect, Torture, Voodoo Doll (MV), Whump, basically "N is the Heart and Soul of VIXX: The Fic", someone please give all these poor boys a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 20:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13795308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XILVerify/pseuds/XILVerify
Summary: The doll was only ever meant to be a simple toy. An object, a thing, with no real agency or life of his own, sewn and stitched together with magic and flesh by a sadistic witch who preferred playthings that bled and screamed and still remained devoted to her no matter what she did to them. He was never supposed to be more than that. And yet, magic is a curious thing. So is love. And when the two combine, unexpected things can happen.Or: The tale of a doll who somehow became more than the sum of his parts, and in the process unwittingly created a family in the unlikeliest of places.Prequel to "Dolls"✖◆✖◆✖◆✖◆✖◆✖◆✖“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”― Margery Williams, "The Velveteen Rabbit"





	Becoming Real

**Author's Note:**

> So I _was_ working on my other unfinished Kpop stories, when a scene from Erisette’s excellent fic “Who We Are” got me all inspired. I was originally planning on just writing a bit of brief, headcanony exposition for that AU, and then it just kinda… kept growing. Into whatever this 16000+ word, 26 page monstrosity is. Many thanks to Erisette for graciously allowing me to play around in her AU for a bit to develop a backstory for it, and for helping me brainstorm. Voodoo Doll has always been one of the best concepts VIXX has ever done, imo, so I’m thrilled to finally be writing something for it. :D Hope you enjoy!

The first thing he can remember is warmth, and a melodic voice telling him to “Wake up, my doll.” Unable to resist the compelling voice, his eyes flutter open. A beautiful face looks down upon him, framed by long, golden waves of hair. His heart beats faster as he gazes up at the being in awe, a strange emotion warming him from his head to his toes. Love. He loves this person. He would do anything for Them ( _Her, She is a Her, and he is a him, and he does not know how he knows this, nor does he care at the moment_ ).

 

“Well, hello there.” Red, red lips curve upward as She sees that he is awake.

 

“Who are you? Who am I?” he asks wonderingly, before blinking in surprise at the sound of his own voice.

 

“I am your creator,” She explains, moving out of his line of vision. This prompts him to sit up to keep her in sight. “You are my doll.”

 

He nods, easily accepting this explanation, and briefly looks down, studying his slim, brown-skinned hands and arms, clad in a simple, grayish-brown sweater, with darker brown pants covering his long legs. He then looks around the cluttered space about him curiously. So many things! Books and shelves and bottles and baskets and papers and plants and stones and so many other things his mind doesn’t have a ready name for. He himself was lying on a table, which is surrounded by small, floating orbs of light and peculiar runes and markings scribbled on pieces of paper.

 

As he looks, She gestures with a hand, and the orbs of light extinguish and a hole in the far wall swings open with a soft creaking noise. A door.

 

His mouth drops open. “How…?”

 

“It’s called magic,” She smiles indulgently. “I _am_ a witch, after all.”

 

Small bits of warm red fluff ( _feathers_ , his mind supplies helpfully) are scattered here and there over the wooden floor. When the door opens, they flutter in the breeze the movement creates, and the sight of them fills him with an odd, bittersweet yearning.

  
  
“Come, my doll,” She commands him from over Her shoulder as She walks to the door, black skirts swishing gracefully, and the inexplicable longing vanishes as quickly as it came. He follows Her gladly, through empty halls, down long flights of stairs, and finally into a large, open room. Four smaller rooms branch off from it, separated from the main one by long, iron bars. Cages. A table covered with various shiny tools, most of them sharp or pointy or both, sits in the center of the room next to another longer table, with strange straps of material fastened to it. The thing that captures his attention most, however, is a vaguely humanoid-shaped plush object made out of white fabric. A red heart shape is sewn onto its chest, its face a mass of stitching. A doll. Curious. Isn’t he a doll? Why doesn’t he look like that, then? 

 

When he voices this question to Her, She giggles, a lovely sound that he wants to hear more of straightaway. “You’re both dolls,” She tells him. “Just different kinds.” He supposes that makes sense, though he can’t seem to take his eyes off the thing. It’s… vaguely unsettling and also compelling at the same time.

 

“Here.” She pats the long table with one slim, perfect hand, smiling invitingly. “Lie down. I want to show you something.”

 

He obeys immediately. The hard wood isn’t comfortable, but he doesn’t mind, as long as She keeps smiling at him like that.

 

“Good!” She praises, causing him to grin in delight at Her approval. “Now, lie still while I fasten these.” She straps him down firmly onto the table with the brown, flexible strips, which his mind tells him are made of leather, and he dutifully makes sure to stay completely motionless while She does so.

 

“Finished!” She claps Her hands once She’s done. “Oh, we’ll have so much fun together.” She takes up a long, thin, sharp object from the smaller table, a knife, and smiles at it, then at him. Something in Her smile sends chills down his spine, though he still tries to return it. What is this? This cold, foreboding feeling? Why is he… afraid?

 

“Well.” She snickers, lightly scraping a black-painted fingernail along his smooth jawline. “I will at least.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He remembers there was a lot of screaming, after that. He remembers crying, so scared and confused, wondering what was happening, what he did wrong. He remembers her laughter as she cut him open again and again. He remembers Her showing him exactly what the little white doll was used for by twisting its limbs into unnatural shapes in front of him, his own bending right along with them until they gave way with violent cracks. He remembers pain. So, so much pain.

 

He remembers being thrown into a random cage when she was finally done with him, broken and bleeding both in body and in spirit. But when She did the same thing over and over, day after day, he came to accept it as normal. This was just how the world worked. Hurting him made Her happy, and he loved Her, so therefore it could only be right.

 

He remembers time passing, and then one day she led another doll into the room, love in his eyes and a smile on his lips, until She took him and broke him, too, and threw him into the cage beside the first doll. Another doll followed, and then another, whom She seemed especially taken with, and the days blurred together in an endless procession of screams and agony and love poured out and spilled on the concrete floor again and again.

 

He remembers one day She was playing with the second doll, breaking his bones one by one using the little white effigy, until suddenly, there was a particularly sickening crunching sound, and he collapsed, dropping to the floor like a stone, unmoving. She took him away with Her somewhere, and the doll never saw him again.

 

He remembers something similar happening to the third doll, though it took him longer to break irreparably than the second one did. She seemed angry when he never recovered, and as She dragged his body out with Her, the doll could hear Her muttering indistinctly to herself under Her breath. He remembers exchanging confused glances with the last remaining doll, and wondering what would happen next. Would She break them all eventually?

 

He remembers there being only the two of them for a while, just him and Her favorite, and then one day, out of the blue, they were both moved to a new room, even deeper down in Her house, this one with six cages instead of four. Each of the cages were slightly different, and he remembers being surprised and vaguely pleased when he was given the one with the old, ratty couch. He enjoyed being able to sit on it while observing the rest of the large room.

 

He remembers two new dolls being created close together soon after he and Her favorite were relocated, polar opposites to each other in nearly every way. The first was tall, quiet, with long, slim limbs and an impassive, delicate face. The second was slightly shorter, with a large nose, expressive eyes, and a loud, strident voice. She caged them directly across from the first two, and proceeded to amuse herself by breaking the quiet one’s limbs so that they hung in curious angles and making the loud one scream so much that the doll’s ears rang for hours afterward.

 

He remembers more time. He remembers another doll. The tallest of them all, deep voiced, imposing, fiery and spirited. She liked to mark this one, thousands of needles sinking under his skin to make permanent patterns and pictures in blood and black ink.

 

He stops remembering, because there is nothing else to remember, currently. If he were to stop and think about it, he would find it rather odd that he can remember so much, when none of the others seem to remember much of anything at all. They just exist from day to day. Nothing came before, and nothing will come after. To them, there is only now. It does not particularly matter one way or the other about his memories, however. Nothing particularly matters, except for Her.

 

Time goes on, as it always does. The five break, they bleed, they scream, they cry, all according to Her whims, and the doll is content, because this is what he was made for, this is his purpose. He has no reason to think otherwise.

 

Until…

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

One day, She brings a new doll into the room. The doll can’t say he’s particularly surprised at this development, since the cage directly to the right of his is still yet to be occupied and She is not in the habit of making superfluous things. What he _is_ surprised at is just how… _small_ … the new doll is. All the dolls thus far have been considerably taller than Her, but the doll himself has always been the smallest out of all of them. This new one, though… he’s so much tinier, even a little smaller than Her if the doll’s eyes aren’t betraying him, as odd as that concept is to contemplate. The angles of his face are soft, his round cheeks flushed a faint pink, and his limbs gangly and slightly disproportionate, as if they don’t fit his body quite right yet. _Cute_ is the first word that springs to mind when the doll looks at him, which vaguely startles him; he’s never thought anything was “cute” before.

 

She leads the newest doll into the room by the hand, and he follows Her readily, eyes not leaving Her face even for a second, bright and full of innocent love, his crooked smile shy and sweet. An inexplicable pang goes through the doll at the sight, and for the first time, the thought of what will inevitably soon happen fills him with a nameless, enigmatic dread. The feeling grows when She shows the little one the table that is also sometimes a chair, and he willingly lays himself down and allows himself to be strapped securely to it.

 

As the little one lies there, bound, helpless, yet gazing up at Her in pure trust and adoration, the overwhelming sense of _wrongness_ that has been growing inside the doll reaches a fever pitch. His hands instinctively curl into fists, bunching up handfuls of the dirty, coarse fabric that covers his couch as he watches Her take up Her favorite knife. What is wrong with him? Why does he feel this way? This is just how things are, the way they’ve always been, so why does this feel so incredibly _wrong_?

 

And then the knife slices into the littlest’s smooth, unmarred skin, red welling up around the blade, and a single thought leaps into the doll’s mind:

 

_You don’t hurt little ones._

 

His hands tighten so hard on the fabric in his clenched fists that his knuckles turn white as the littlest’s worshipful expression turns to one of confusion, then fear, then sorrow. Tears start to trickle from his eyes as She cuts into him again and again, tiny, pained, frightened whimpers beginning to fight their way out of his throat.

 

_You don’t hurt little ones._

 

Once the knife is thoroughly drenched red with the littlest’s blood, She deftly flips it around and _rams_ it deep into his side, where it slices effortlessly through fabric, skin, and muscle, the blade vanishing all the way to the hilt. The little doll cries out for the first time as the weapon rips mercilessly into his injured body, his back reflexively arching up off the table, tears flowing even faster down his cheeks.

 

_You don’t. Hurt. Little ones. You don’t, you don’t, you don’t youdon’tyoudon’tyoudon’tYOUDON’T-_

 

The thought continues to echo in the doll’s head over and over, faster and faster, as She continues Her work, crimson dripping steadily onto the table as the littlest’s screams reverberate throughout the room, and the doll feels an unfamiliar heat begin to take hold of him. His heart beats faster, his muscles are so tense his body starts to tremble slightly, and all he wants is for all this to _stop_.

 

But it doesn’t stop. Not for a good long while. Not until the little one finally lies unconscious in a puddle of his own blood. Looking disappointed at Her fun being cut short so soon, She tosses Her newest toy into the last empty cell, and amuses Herself the rest of the day by using the white plush doll on the rest of them by turns. This does not help the doll’s mood any. In fact, seeing the rest of his fellow dolls cry out and collapse in agony one by one as She stabs the tiny effigy with a needle over and over makes the blazing heat inside him burn even hotter.

 

A name for the emotions boiling up inside him whispers itself into his mind: anger. He’s _angry_. The little one didn’t deserve that. None of them do, the doll realizes, as another phantom jab to his leg makes him yelp. Why? Why is She doing this? _Why_? What purpose does it serve? Yes, it makes Her happy, but does Her happiness have to come at the expense of theirs?

 

 _Yes_ , comes the immediate, familiar thought. But for the first time, the doll challenges it with a simple _why?_ He gets no answer aside from _Because_. And instead of satisfying him, as it usually does, this time it just makes him angrier.

 

She finally hangs up the little white doll and retires for the night, leaving them to recover. Instead of sinking down into the usual, quiet ennui that grips them all when She is gone, however, the doll stays alert, his brain working harder and faster than it ever has before.

 

 _Because_. They’re supposed to let Her hurt them _because_. Because why? Because She made them? Because it makes Her happy? Because they love Her? Because She loves them and this is how She expresses it?

 

No… No, this… this isn’t love. What She does to them… it isn’t out of love. He’d always assumed that She hurt them and it made Her happy because of some reason he wasn’t smart enough to understand, and that She created them and wanted them with Her because She loved them as much as they loved Her. But he can’t even fathom doing to Her what She does to them. He finds very idea abhorrent. The magnitude of this realization stuns the doll so much that he simply sits and stares at the floor for a few minutes, trying to process this radical shift to his thought processes.

 

And then it clicks. All the disparate bits of information that his brain has passively collected during all the time spent with her comes together in his head, and he suddenly sees everything clearly, as if a blindfold has been yanked off his eyes. She’s _using_ them. She made them, so ergo, She made them love Her. The doll knows with absolute certainty that he didn’t choose to love Her, he just automatically did, from the moment he first laid eyes on Her. She must have built it into them so they would happily do whatever She says, so She can use them for her own amusement while keeping them content in their own misery because of the love that She makes them feel for Her.

 

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense, and the angrier he becomes. All this time… all this time She was just using him. Manipulating him. Hurting him over and over and laughing at his pain, relishing in it, secure in the knowledge that he would just come crawling back for more because it made Her happy and that was all that mattered.

 

He suddenly realizes that he’s shaking. His stomach churns nauseatingly, his breathing coming in sharp, hitching little gasps, and small wet spots start to dot the fabric of his ragged clothing. He numbly touches the fingers of one hand to his cheek, and feels tears trickle over them. He stays like that for the rest of the night, furious and heartsick in equal measures, as everything he previously thought he knew disintegrates around him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

When She returns the next day, She singles out the littlest immediately, wanting to play with her new toy again. At the sight of Her eager face, and the fear on the littlest’s as She holds him in place on the chair that was once a table with Her magic, preparing to pierce his arms and shoulders through with Her needles, the grief and betrayal the doll previously felt suddenly transforms into boiling, blinding _rage_.

 

How dare She. How _dare_ She. The littlest _trusted_ Her, he _loves_ Her, and this is how She treats him? The thought that previously leaped into the doll’s mind when She was first hurting the littlest comes back to him now, and he agrees with it just as much now as he did then. The little one should not be hurt. He’s so _small_. So fragile and innocent. He should not be here in this place. He deserves more, deserves better than this life of dread and pain and heartache, deserves better than _Her_.

 

Her. For the first time, the thought of Her fills the doll with something other than adoration, fear, or sorrow. As She picks up a long needle and holds it to the littlest’s arm, the sharp point lightly embeds itself in his soft, pale skin, drawing a single drop of blood, and the fury, betrayal, and disgust filling the doll all meld together and crystalize into something raw and seething, razor-sharp and white-hot. His mind identifies it as _hate_.

 

And then the littlest whimpers piteously as the first needle finally pierces his flesh, and the doll is struck with the sudden, intense, and overwhelming urge to gather him into his arms, to hold him close and never let him go. He wants to make it stop, the hurting, the senseless pain, the fear and sorrow filling the poor little one’s eyes. He wants to bring back the pure, simple joy he saw shining in the littlest’s eyes when he saw him for the first time, wants to see that shy, sweet little smile again. He just wants the littlest to be happy, he would do anything to make that happen, and… wait…

 

Wait…

 

The doll… recognizes this feeling. It’s the very first thing he ever remembers feeling in his life. It’s… it’s love. He loves the little one. In a different way than he loves ( _loved_ ) Her, for sure, but there’s no mistaking it; he loves him. So much that the feeling is almost frightening in its intensity. And he has no idea why or even how. He _does_ know with absolute certainty he’s not supposed to. His only purpose is to love and serve Her. The dolls usually barely acknowledge each other’s existences when She’s not around; they definitely aren’t supposed to care about, much less love each other. Yet he does. And he knows that unlike with Her, no one is making him love the littlest, no one built it into him. This is his choice, _his_ , no one else’s.

 

And on that note, as he pursues this line of thought further, he realizes… that he loves the other dolls as well. He loves her favorite’s contagious laughter, and the loud one’s bold, strident voice. He loves the marked one’s fiery, feisty spirit, and the way the quiet one sometimes glances over into his cell, communicating without ever saying a word. He loves them all. Just like with the littlest, he wants to touch them, to hold them, to take their pain away, for them to be able to feel what he feels right now, as if something dormant and dead inside him has finally come alive and he is finally, truly living instead of just existing.

 

And just like that, the doll’s world turns completely upside down.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

After having his worldview thoroughly shaken in the span of about two days, the doll doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He finds he can’t return to the blank torpor that the dolls experience when She’s away even if he wanted to (which he most emphatically does not). So he spends most of his time thinking instead, trying his best to process all these brand new emotions and ideas and concepts that he’s never experienced or considered before. It’s not an immediate process to sort through and come to terms with everything, not even remotely, but it helps pass the time, and it’s exciting, in a way. Becoming something more than he was originally meant to be.

 

He tries sometimes to initiate conversations that last longer than a few sentences with the other dolls now, too, finding himself oddly desperate for companionship in a way he never used to be before. Despite repeated attempts, however, he’s mostly unsuccessful. Sometimes the loud one will deign to speak with him for a little while if the doll is especially persuasive, but usually, all they give him are odd looks before they go back to staring vacantly into space. Despite his disappointment, the doll can’t really bring himself to be too frustrated by this. He well remembers what it was like to be like them, after all, and he knows that in their minds, anyone who isn’t Her doesn’t really register on their priority lists. She made them that way. It isn’t their fault.

 

Knowing this still doesn’t stop him from getting unbearably lonely sometimes, though. To cope, he sometimes resorts to crawling behind his couch and making up conversations between himself and imaginary companions, making sure to talk softly so that he doesn’t disturb the others too much, finding some measure of comfort in the sound of his own voice.

 

When She is around, though, it’s a different story. The blind, unquestioning love She’d instilled in him died a violent and fiery death when She first laid a hand on the littlest, and now all he feels toward Her is profound disgust and a smoldering, helpless fury that flares when any one of the others get singled out and placed in the chair or on the table, particularly the littlest.

 

She singles the littlest out quite a lot, the doll notices (who has oddly started to grow after being here for some time; he’s a little taller than Her now, and the doll doesn’t quite know how he feels about that). Oh, She gives plenty of attention to the rest of them as well, but the doll remembers that She always tends to pay the most attention to the newest dolls when they first come. It’s the novelty of the thing, he supposes. Figuring out their own individual limits and how far She can go with each one of them.

 

And then one day, She overestimates how much punishment the littlest’s body can take, breaking too many of his bones, spilling too much of his blood. Before he can bleed out entirely, She sloppily sews together a huge gash in his abdomen with needle and thread, then briefly leaves the room. She returns with a cup and bowl on a small tray, and glances calculatingly between each of the other dolls’ cages. She finally appears to settle on the doll’s, walking towards his cage and pulling the littlest’s limp, brutalized body along with Her, thick smears of crimson trailing on the floor behind him.

 

The doll remembers something like this happening before. When She broke the third doll, so badly he’d never recovered, he hadn’t broken all the way immediately like the second doll had. She’d put him in the glass box with Her favorite, where he’d slumped against the wall and filled the bottom of the box with two fingers’ worth of red until he finally stopped breathing and never moved again. Does that mean the littlest is irreparably broken, too? The thought sends a jolt of something the doll can only call panic coursing through his veins, and he surges to his feet as She approaches with the littlest in tow, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides helplessly.

 

The glass forming the door to the doll’s cage rises into the ceiling, and She carelessly tosses Her burden inside, Her small frame hiding an unnerving amount of strength. The littlest’s body hits the floor with a wet, sickening thud, his long, coltish limbs bent at unnatural angles, red leaking sluggishly from dozens of jagged slashes in his skin. He lacks the strength to do more than keen softly in agony, tears trickling steadily down his bruised, bloody face. As much as the doll wants to immediately rush to him, he stands stock still as She sets the cup and a bowl near the littlest’s body. She then turns abruptly and stalks off again, the glass lowering until it settles back into place as Her footsteps echo down the hall.

 

The second She’s out of sight, the doll scurries to the littlest’s side, kneeling down next to him and biting his lip worriedly. The other doll looks even worse up close. He instinctually reaches out a hand toward him, when…

 

“N-no, p-please,” the littlest whimpers deliriously through bloody lips, his broken body curling in on itself in a feeble attempt to get away from the doll’s outstretched hand. “P-please, n-no more. P-please, I can’t, I c-cant, please, p-please…”

 

Something in the doll’s chest wrenches painfully at the little one’s obvious terror, and he withdraws his hand reluctantly, not wanting to cause the other any more undue stress. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, as reassuringly as he can. He doesn’t quite know what he’s going to do, but he knows with absolute certainty that he would rather be broken irreparably himself than ever cause the littlest any harm.

 

“I want… I want to…” What does he want? He thinks hard, wracking his brain for the right word. “I want to… help? Yes. Yes, I want to help.”

 

“Help…?” The littlest clearly has no understanding of the strange word.

 

“Here, like this.” With that, the doll reaches out a second time.

 

The littlest flinches violently, clearly expecting more pain, but then stills when the doll pushes careful fingers through his soft, dark hair. His eyes widen in shock and incomprehension as the doll’s fingers comb through his hair again, and then a third time. The fourth time, he actually leans into the touch a little, and a bright, blazing warmth kindles in the doll’s chest, spreading throughout his whole body, all the from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes, and he suddenly realizes he’s smiling. He can’t remember the last time he smiled.

 

He continues stroking the littlest’s hair for a few minutes longer, relishing in the touch of another’s skin against his own, and is surprised to see that the other seems… to be breathing a little easier? This soon? Is it possible? He’s still grievously injured, for sure, but his face isn’t quite as contorted with pain as it was just a couple minutes ago. The doll stills his fingers, pausing with his hand on the littlest’s forehead, and his eyes widen as he feels a slight tingle of energy flow between him and the little one, like he’s pulling some of the doll’s life force away to replenish his own depleted stores. The doll’s mind races as he considers the implications of this.

 

So, the dolls can help each other heal if in close enough proximity, which must be why She put the third doll in with her favorite, all that time ago. It hadn’t been enough to save him back then, but perhaps…

 

He glances back down at the littlest. What if skin to skin contact helps even better than proximity? Only one way to find out. His charge gives a low, agonized moan as the doll gathers him into his arms and carries him over to his couch, settling onto the lumpy cushions with his burden and arranging him as comfortably as he can in his lap, taking care not to jostle broken limbs and open wounds too much. The littlest begins to cry again before he’s done, and his soft, tiny sobs somehow hurt the doll more than Her knives and needles have ever managed, answering tears springing to his eyes involuntarily.

 

“Shhhh, little one, shhhhhh,” he soothes, wrapping his arms around the other doll and holding him close, utterly unmindful of the blood that begins to stain his own clothes. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry. I know it hurts, I know, little one, I know, but I promise it’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, shhhhh.”

 

He continues to hold the littlest and whisper reassuring nothings into his ear until the other doll cries himself out and just lies there limply in his arms, too weak to do anything else. The doll sighs and looks up out of his cell for the first time since She left… and sees that he’s earned himself the complete and undivided attention of every single other doll in the room.

 

The loud one has pressed himself up against the glass door of his cage, eyes almost comically round as he goggles at the scene unfolding in the doll’s cell. The marked one is pacing back and forth behind the scribbled symbols on the front of his cell, but instead of his eyes roving here, there, and everywhere like they normally do, they’re focused intently on the doll, even as he paces. Her favorite sits in his open box with restraints wrapped tightly around his limbs, giggling to himself at some unknown joke as is his habit, his odd, unseeing eyes appearing to stare straight into the doll’s soul as he grins. The quiet one just gazes unblinkingly from his place in the center of his cage, his face an unreadable mask as always.

 

The doll drops his gaze, a tad unnerved by the others’ intense stares, and spies the cup and bowl She’d left before departing. His eyes widen as he realizes food and drink must be in them, which She usually only gives if the dolls aren’t healing fast enough for her liking. The littlest must really be hurt badly, then, for Her to put him in someone else’s cage _and_ give him nourishment.

 

After a moment of deliberating about how best to go about this, the doll decides to place the littlest’s body on the couch, biting his lower lip raw as the other doll starts to cry again at being moved, and rushes over to gather up the cup and bowl, noting that the bowl is filled with a grey, lumpy mush with a wooden spoon stuck into it, and the cup is full of gritty water. He crouches beside the couch and lifts up the littlest’s head and shoulders so he can swallow easier, cradling the back of his head in the crook of his arm.

 

“Here, you need to drink this,” the doll coaxes patiently, holding the small cup of water to the little one’s mouth. He doesn’t seem to quite know what to do at first, but catches on readily enough once the doll dribbles a few drops onto his bloody lips. Once he’s drained the cup, the doll sets it aside and takes up the spoon sitting inside bowl of mush, scooping a small amount onto the utensil and guiding it into the littlest’s mouth. The injured doll takes to food much faster than he did the water, and soon the bowl is as empty as the cup.

 

“Sorry, little one, that’s all there is,” the doll regretfully tells his charge as the other begins to whimper and nuzzle at him, clearly asking for more. “I’d give you more if I could. Maybe She’ll give you more tomorrow, if you’re not healed enough by then.”

 

After finally seeming convinced that there’s no more food to be had, the littlest drops into a fitful sleep in the doll’s arms as his wounds slowly knit themselves together. Though he would usually be asleep by now as well, the doll can’t bring himself to close his eyes even for a minute, marveling over and over at the texture of the little doll’s hair, the softness of his skin, the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the color of his lips, the steady thrum of his heart against his chest. Joy and wonder and love crash over him in overwhelming waves one after another, again and again, filling his heart so full that his chest physically aches.  

 

 

And yet, despite being so exceedingly happy that the sheer intensity of it almost scares him, sorrow nudges at the edge of his mind as well. The knowledge that after this night is over, She will come back and take the littlest away, and it’s only a matter of time before She hurts him again. Hurts the others again. His grip tightens slightly on the little one at the thought, helpless grief and anger trickling back into his thoughts.

 

Oh, if there was only some way to rescue them from all this, to take them somewhere where they could live their lives in peace, far away from Her. But he can’t; even if the restraints that bind them all to their cages weren’t there, the little white effigy effectively prevents them all from leaving, as she hangs it up by its neck every night without fail. If they tried to leave, the dolls would effectively strangle themselves. They’re trapped. Inescapably trapped. There’s nothing he can do.

 

The littlest moans softly in his sleep, instinctively nestling closer to the doll’s warmth, sweat trickling down his brow as his overworked body desperately tries to heal the grievous injuries dealt to it. The doll shushes him comfortingly, glad for a distraction from his glum thoughts, running gentle fingers through his damp hair as he begins to rock him back and forth, wishing desperately there was some way he could take the other’s pain away. He’d even bear it himself if he could-

 

The doll’s train of thought screeches to an abrupt halt, his fingers stilling in the littlest’s hair. _If he could_. But he _could_ bear it for him, couldn’t he. Not currently, not after the damage is already dealt, but… what if there was some way to do it before it got to this point? Some way to get Her to hurt him instead so that the others could be spared this kind of pain in the future?

 

Fear and hope war within him as he wrestles with this distressing new idea. He knows _exactly_ what he would have to do to actively provoke Her to hurt him, and every single instinct he possesses immediately and unequivocally balks at the thought. He’s also, for lack of a better word, only human; he is in no way fond of pain or suffering, and the mere notion of voluntarily taking on even more on top of what She already gives out is enough to make him want to break down in terrified tears right there on the spot. But… but. This would give him the chance to finally, _finally_ do something tangible to help the other dolls. To protect them, however indirectly.

 

He looks down at the littlest’s pale, unconscious, tearstained face, at how vulnerable and frail he looks, lying limply in his arms like… well, like a doll. And that settles it. He knows with absolute certainty that he would take everything She wanted to do to him without complaint and more if it meant never having to see the little one – or any of the others – in this much pain again.

 

He nods to himself once, brow furrowing slightly in resolve, and tucks the littlest’s head back against the column of his throat. He lightly rests his cheek against the little one’s hair, sighing softly and closing his eyes for a brief moment. He spends the rest of the night in that position, just enjoying the simple warmth of another’s body pressed tightly against his, a deep, quiet gladness welling up inside him and briefly drowning out any doubts or fears that linger in the back of his mind.

 

All too soon, though, She returns. One perfect eyebrow rises slightly as She sees the littlest tucked securely against the doll’s chest. The little one is still asleep, still injured, but is breathing much easier, his wounds healed enough that he’s in no danger of permanently breaking anymore. After assessing this for Herself, She takes up the effigy and the glass partition of the doll’s cage rises. It’s all the doll can do to actually force himself to let go of the littlest as he’s inexorably pulled from his grip and placed back in his own cage to finish recovering.

 

Since his cage is already open, She decides to start Her daily torture routine with the doll, and he’s secretly glad. It gives him the chance to work up the courage to put his plan into action instead of having to muster all at once.

 

He’s bruised and bloody by the time She seems about ready to move on from him, right leg hanging at an unnatural angle from the knee down. As She moves to pick up the doll to move him from the chair back to his cage, he opens his mouth, a single word emerging from it in a hoarse whisper.

 

“Why?”

 

She stills, looking at him in palpable surprise. “Excuse me?”

 

His voice is a little stronger this time. “Why do you hurt us like this?”

 

“Because it pleases me to do so,” She answers, eyes narrowing in suspicion or anger. Or both. “And that should be more than enough reason for you, doll.”

 

He takes a deep breath. Exhales. “What if it isn’t?”

 

She frowns, hand tightening around the effigy’s neck. The doll feels phantom fingers wrap around his own throat, and closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. “Then it soon will be.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The doll can barely move at all when She finally deposits him back into his cage. However, She leaves only a little while afterwards, after breaking one of the quiet one’s arms. The fact that She didn’t have time to touch any of the others fills the doll with grim satisfaction. Maybe his plan has a chance of working after all.

 

Life falls into a sort of routine after that. The doll will mouth off to Her in some way, usually by insulting some aspect of Her appearance or by asking one too many questions She doesn’t feel like answering, and She’ll lose Her temper and focus on hurting him and only him for the rest of the day. He takes a day or two to heal, and then it starts all over again. It’s exhausting, and there are times he desperately wants to quit, but seeing his fellow dolls in comparatively better health makes it all worthwhile.

 

And then, one night, as the doll is curled up on his couch, waiting for the throbbing agony in his gut and left arm to subside from another prolonged session with Her, the marked one’s deep, gravelly voice rings out across the large, silent room.

 

“What exactly are you playing at?” It takes the doll a long moment to realize the marked one, and indeed everyone else, is looking directly at him. That he’s being spoken to.

 

“What do you mean?” the doll replies as soon as he can find his tongue, unable to mask his delight at conversation being initiated with _him_ for once.  

 

“Don’t be stupid,” her favorite says bluntly. “We know what you’re up to. Taking all Her attention for yourself like that. You’re not subtle, you know.”

 

“I… you can’t be serious,” the doll protests incredulously, almost unable to believe his ears.

 

“Do you see me laughing?” her favorite replies snidely.

 

“I’m trying to protect you! Can’t you see that?”

 

“Protect us from what?” The quiet one speaks up, his soft, airy voice such an uncommon sound that everyone else shuts up immediately. His dark eyes bore into the doll’s, reproachful and sad and confused, and the doll feels his heart constrict involuntarily. “This is what we were made for, smaller one. We bring Her happiness. You would deprive us of fulfilling our purpose? Of spending time with She who gave us life?”

 

“I…” The doll has no ready answer to that line of logic.

 

“Yeah, what he said!” the loud one pipes up from his cage.

 

“You’re telling me you _like_ what She does to us?” the doll retorts, trying to get the others to see reason.

 

“What does it matter what we like?” the littlest says, and okay, the doll didn’t think he could feel worse about this situation, but apparently he was wrong. “As long as She’s happy, that’s all that matters.”

 

“So stop being selfish and occupying all Her time,” finishes the marked one. “The rest of us want to make Her happy, too.”

 

Frustrated, helpless tears fill the doll’s eyes as he looks at the rest of them, one by one. They don’t understand. Of course they don’t understand. He was so _stupid_ to think that they would. His lower lip wobbles dangerously, and he abruptly turns and drops down behind the back of his couch, his remaining injuries protesting the movement loudly, but he almost welcomes the external pain. Hidden away from the rest of the dolls’ accusing gazes, he curls up in a tight, compact ball and buries his face in his knees.

 

It’s not their fault, he tries to tell himself, even as he feels hot, heartbroken tears start to soak into the material of his pants. They don’t know any better. How could they? She’s all any of them have ever known. She’s their whole world. Of course they would resent him for what they perceive as him taking Her away from them. He would have reacted similarly before the littlest came. He just… wasn’t prepared for how much their rejection would hurt. For the way they throw his efforts to show them how much he cares about them back in his face as if it means nothing to them.

 

And of course it wouldn’t, he thinks bitterly. All they care about is Her. Maybe he _should_ leave them to Her, then, if that’s what they want so badly. Remorse grips him the second the thought crosses his mind, and he instinctively recoils from it, images of twisted limbs and mangled flesh filling his head. No. No, he could never do that.

 

So, what then? If he continues to try to protect them, then there’s the very real possibility they might end up hating him for it. They might never come to care about him the same way he cares about them. Anguish fills his heart at the thought, but he knows that whether the others hate him or not, it doesn’t matter. Because his choice is already made.

 

As much as he longs for affection to one day be reflected back at him instead of suspicion and scorn, he can’t be sure that it will ever happen. Maybe what happened to him when the littlest came was a mistake. He was the first, after all. Maybe the fact that he can feel things for anything other than Her is an oversight on Her part, some sort of flaw in his design. The thought is more than a bit terrifying, but he’s fiercely glad for it all the same. She may be able to control his body, to injure and break and destroy him however She wishes, but She’ll never be able to control his heart or mind ever again with the slavish devotion that She uses to make the rest of her toys content with their lot in life. The others deserve at least a chance at that same freedom as well. In the meantime, the least he can do is try to protect them for as long as he can. Even if they hate him for it, he has to try.

 

Thus decided, the doll climbs back onto his couch once he’s reasonably sure the others have fallen asleep. He’s mostly right. Only the quiet one is still awake, looking directly into his cage with an unreadable, searching expression on his face. The doll stares back, and the two lock eyes for a long moment before the quiet one looks away with an inaudible sigh. If the doll didn’t know better, he’d think the other looks almost… sad.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Once She returns the next day, She makes her usual rounds, passing in front of their cages one by one, a faint smirk on Her red lips as she surveys her handiwork, obviously gloating in Her power over them. The doll sits in the center of his couch as he typically does, watching Her. All the while, a familiar, seething rage slowly builds in his chest as the brief conversation he had with the other dolls the night before replays in his head. He was planning on laying low for a few days to let things go back to normal, but that look on Her face is making it very, very hard for him to hold his tongue.

 

Then, as She passes his cage and moves on to the littlest’s, the doll can’t bear it any longer.

 

“I hate you.” The words slip out before he can stop them, and he freezes in brief, instinctual terror. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, though, maybe she didn’t hear. But She stops dead in her tracks, back going rigid, and stands there for a moment before turning on Her heel and stalking up to the front of his cage.

 

“What did you say?” She asks, smiling a smile so sharp and dangerous that it takes all the doll’s willpower to not drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness on the spot. His anger gives him courage, though, and when he raises his eyes to meet Hers, there’s no trace of fear to be seen in their dark depths. 

 

“I said,” he repeats, his voice just as quiet as it was previously, “I hate you.” She must read the undeniable truth of it in his eyes, because she doesn’t even try to dispute the sentiment. Her own narrow, and the doll has just enough time for a ball of cold dread to settle in the pit of his stomach before Her grip tightens on the stuffed doll in Her hands and invisible bands of iron wrap around his torso and _squeeze_.

 

“I have had just about enough of your disrespect, doll,” She scowls disapprovingly as he gasps involuntarily, body stiffening as if held in a vice. The cords connected to the anchor points embedded in his flesh that tie him to his cage fall away of their own accord, and the glass door partitioning him off from the rest of the room rises just enough for Her to pull him out using Her magic before returning it to its original position. She carries him to the center of the room and then _slams_ him onto the table so hard that the breath is knocked out of his lungs, pulling the straps around his wrists and ankles so tight that he can feel them begin to cut into his skin.

 

She circles the table like a predator on the hunt as he lies before Her, prone and frightened and pitifully vulnerable. “I made you. You owe your very existence to me. You live for no other purpose than to serve _me_. You are _mine_. And recently, you seem to have forgotten that fact.” She delicately picks up a serrated handsaw, tests the edge with her finger, and then looks back at him, the promise of pain evident in her eyes. “I think it’s high time I remind you.”

 

She makes good on that promise, as She always does. The floor is soon red with the doll’s blood and the air rings with his cries as She marks him as Hers. The minutes blur together in to one long continuum of agony, and he loses all track of time as She keeps finding creative new ways to cause him pain, sometimes with Her tools, sometimes with the white doll.

 

Then, at some point after she carved a large, intricate design deep into his belly, blood begins to well up in his throat and he nearly chokes on the stuff, the bitter taste coating his tongue. A brief fit of coughing wracks his frame, each cough sending another crushing pang of agony lancing through him as scarlet spills from his mouth in two thick streams. As he steadily loses more and more blood, more than he ever remembers losing before, he feels himself growing weaker and weaker, until he’s so utterly drained of energy that he can barely even summon enough strength to take another breath.

 

Just as darkness edges around his vision and he is certain that he cannot withstand a second more… it finally, _finally_ stops. It’s all the exhausted, suffering doll can do to just keep breathing as he distantly feels the bloodstained leather straps that tightly bind his limbs begin to loosen. And then he’s violently jerked back into full awareness as his battered, bleeding body is yanked into the air.

 

He’s unable to stifle a brief, feeble cry of anguish as She holds him suspended by magic directly before Her, the little white effigy tucked securely under one arm and the skirts of Her dress fanning out below him as red drips onto them from his wounds. He hasn’t the strength to raise his head to look directly at Her, nor would he want to if he did. He doesn’t get a choice in the matter, though, when slim, wicked fingers grab a fistful of his hair and brutally wrench his head up, forcing him to look Her in the eye.

 

“Well, pet, have we learned our lesson?” Her sickly sweet smile is mocking, smug, as She reaches up with Her other hand and caresses his bruised, ashen cheek, wiping away blood and tears with a cruel, deceptive tenderness that hurts almost worse than his actual injuries.

 

He refuses to answer Her, and despite the way his vision is swimming in and out of focus, he manages to meet Her eyes unflinchingly, letting the look in his own say it all. Her beautiful face contorts with fury for a brief, terrifying moment, and then goes completely blank. She lets go of his hair, steps back, raises the hand holding the plush doll… and his back collides with the glass partition of his cell with an almighty _crash_ , the glass giving way under the unnatural force of the impact and shattering into a thousand glittering pieces as he falls, falls, falls...

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He must have blacked out for a bit, because the next thing the doll knows, he is lying on his side in a crumpled, broken heap amidst the shattered remains of his cage’s window. He belatedly registers that he’s trembling, his breathing coming in sporadic, shallow, rattling sobs as he weeps quietly, simply too exhausted and hurt to do anything other than lie there in the ruined wreckage of his cage and cry.

 

Then, as blood continues to steadily trickle from his wounds, his heart suddenly begins to stutter and seize in his chest. With a jolt of visceral terror, he realizes that his injuries aren’t healing fast enough; he can feel his abused body gradually shutting down, unable to cope with the sheer amount of damage that’s been dealt to it. Never has She harmed him this much, this badly before. For the first time, he’s forced to consider the possibility that he might not be able to recover from this.

 

A harsh, involuntary sob tears itself from his raw throat as this realization sinks in, and an inexplicable, primal dread that he doesn’t fully understand coils icy tendrils around his failing heart. Where did the other two dolls go, when She broke them so badly they never moved again? What happened to them? He now knows with certainty that he never wants to find out. Life here with Her is awful but… but. He doesn’t want to leave the others. Maybe there’s a chance, however slim, they can all get out someday. She has to go somewhere when she leaves, right? All the words in his head he has no object to put with, they must mean something. Butterfly, spider, star, rainbow, peach, honeysuckle, cactus, hamster, corgi, giraffe, so many others… he doesn’t know what they are, but he wants to. He wants to see them all someday. He wants to see _everything_ , with the others by his side every step of the way.

 

So he holds on. Despite being so tired, so weak, in such immense pain that every breath he takes is tantamount to swallowing the shards of broken glass littering his cage, the doll somehow manages to last the night, just barely clinging to life by the slimmest of threads.

 

He’s so out of it that he scarcely registers Her return the next day. He can’t even muster the energy to panic when he feels himself being picked up by the little toy’s magic again, or to lift up his head to look around when instead of being tortured some more, he’s dropped into an unfamiliar location. Then, as time passes, he feels energy steadily trickling into him from an unknown source, and his injuries begin to finally mend, enough that he can finally prop himself up on one elbow to take stock of his surroundings.

 

To his immense astonishment, he’s been deposited in the quiet one’s cage, a cup of water and a brown, mushy piece of unidentifiable fruit placed on the floor near him. Judging from the grunts and snarls emanating from the center of the room, She’s busy giving the marked one another picture. The quiet one stands in his usual place in the center of his cage, tugging absently at his restraints. As if he can feel the doll’s eyes on him, he turns slightly, briefly making eye contact before looking away again. The doll’s stomach does an odd little jump in his middle as the other’s eyes meet his, and he desperately wants to reach out to his fellow doll, but he’s still too weak and in too much pain to even attempt it (not to mention he doesn’t want to try anything in front of Her). So he just lies quietly in the corner of the new cell as the rejuvenating warmth of the quiet one’s life energy seeps into him, helping to heal his wounds a little quicker.

 

Once he has enough strength replenished, the doll feebly reaches with his one semi-working arm for the piece of fruit and cup of cloudy water, and does his best to consume them without making too much of a mess. The fruit’s squishy flesh is acrid and bitter on his tongue, and the water is full of grit and tastes like the floor, but his exhausted body desperately cries out for any sort of nourishment and he finishes both in under a minute. He feels a little better once he’s eaten and the taste of old blood is washed out of his mouth, though he knows it will still take some time for the food and the other doll’s presence to work their magic on his injuries. He’s patient, though. He can wait.

 

He begins to doze once the worst of the pain finally starts to subside, feeling absolutely drained but also oddly content. He’s never been so close to the quiet one before. Even if the other hates him by now, even if he doesn’t want to talk or touch or even look at him, just being so close to another being is comforting in its own way.

 

And then something nudges his shoulder, so lightly that the doll wonders if he even actually felt anything at all. Before he can try to process what just happened, large, long-fingered hands gently, if awkwardly, gather his broken body into a pair of slim, strong arms, which then deposit him into the quiet one’s lap, and oh. _Oh_ , the doll is so happy he decided to live. So, so happy.

 

The quiet one’s stoic face softens into a faintly worried expression at the sudden tears trickling down the doll’s bruised cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break you more.”

 

The doll gives a watery, hoarse laugh as he clumsily swipes a hand across his cheeks. Even that one, simple action exhausts him. “No, you didn’t hurt me, don’t worry. I’m just… happy.”

 

The quiet one’s countenance contorts a little in confusion. “Why?”

 

“Because…” The doll hesitates for a brief moment, debating on whether or not to say it before deciding that he doesn’t care anymore. He knows how close he came to breaking irreparably last night; he has nothing to lose. “Because I’m with someone I love.”

 

The quiet one is clearly now hopelessly lost. “But… She just left.”

 

“Never mind,” the doll sighs, weakly patting the quiet one’s arm before taking pity on him and changing the subject. “I’m surprised you would help me, though. I thought you all would hate me by now.”

 

“Help? Is that what this is called?”

 

The doll nods.

 

“Ah. Well… I saw you do this with the littlest that one time. I thought it was what I was supposed to do once She left.”

 

Well, that explains that. It takes the doll a second to realize the quiet one is still talking. “And… why would I hate you?” He arches an eyebrow quizzically.

 

“Because She just spent the entire day with me again?” the doll ventures timidly.

 

“Oh. That.” The quiet one shrugs one bony shoulder. “You just want to spend time with Her, the same as we all do. You are fulfilling your purpose. Though I do wish you would let the rest of us fulfill ours as well.”  

 

The doll’s heart silently breaks at the resigned sadness in the other’s eyes, desperate for the other to at least understand his motivations, even if he can’t accept them. “I don’t actually want to spend time with Her, you know. In fact, if I could, I’d leave this place and never come back.”

 

The quiet one’s eyes grow so round that it would be comical in any other circumstance, almost dropping the doll in his shock. “How can you _say_ that?” he breathes. “She… She made you. She gave you life. She _loves_ you. How could you just _abandon_ Her?”

 

“She doesn’t _love_ me,” the doll snaps, more vehemently than he meant to, if the way the other flinches minutely is any indication. Gentler, he adds, “She doesn’t love any of us.”

 

“She does,” the quiet one insists. “She must. She made us.”

 

“Do you want to hurt Her?” the doll asks pointedly. “Do you want to stab Her with a knife? Make Her scream and bleed and cry?”

 

The quiet one physically recoils at the thought, and the doll nods knowingly. “See? You love Her, so you can’t bear the thought of Her hurt. But She hurts you all the time. She hurts you, and She’s happy about it. She doesn’t love you.”

 

“You’re wrong.” The quiet one shakes his head fervently. “You’re _wrong_.”

 

“I wish I was,” the doll replies sadly. “But I really don’t think I am.”

 

The quiet one opens his mouth to argue, and then closes it, his face becoming stony and impassive once again. The doll fears for a moment that the other is going to dump him back on the floor and leave him all alone again… but he doesn’t. He refuses to talk anymore, though. The doll can’t say he’s particularly shocked; that has to have been the longest conversation either of them have ever had with anyone in their lives.

 

After awhile, despite his pain, the doll starts to drift off again, lulled by the rhythm of the quiet one’s heartbeat under his ear and the sturdy warmth of his embrace. And then the other doll speaks up. “Why do you want to be hurt, then?”

 

“Mmm?” the doll hums tiredly, wordlessly asking for clarification.

 

“You provoke Her, make her do,” He gestures to the smaller doll’s brutalized body, “this. Again and again and again. We all told you to stop, and yet you persist, even if you say you don’t want to. Why?”

 

“Told you already,” the doll mutters wearily, still not fully awake. “Trying to protect you.”

 

“ _Why_?”

 

The doll exhales loudly through his nose, trying to think of a way to say this that the other doll will comprehend. “Think about… what you would feel like, if someone tried to hurt Her.”

 

Upon seeing the quiet one’s face crumple slightly at the hitherto unfathomable thought, the doll knows he’s on the right track. “Hurts, doesn’t it? I feel that way all the time. I feel that every time She hurts one of you. See, love… it doesn’t want to hurt. It wants those it loves to be safe, happy. Free of pain and fear.”

 

Understanding begins to dawn on the quiet one’s gentle face, and encouraged, the doll keeps going despite the fatigue threatening to overwhelm him. “Seeing Her hurt you hurts me worse than if I take it myself. So, if Her hurting me more means that you all hurt less, then I’ll do it. Every time.”

 

A light ignites inside the quiet one’s eyes, and in them, the doll recognizes the light that kindled in his own heart all that time ago when he first laid eyes on the littlest doll. Suddenly he’s being crushed to the larger doll’s chest, and wow, if he wasn’t in so much pain, this would be the best moment of his entire life. No, scratch that, this is _still_ the best moment of his entire life.

 

“Please,” the quiet one says softly, “don’t… don’t. Not for me, not anymore. Please.”

 

“Sorry, but you really can’t tell me what to do,” the doll replies, both amused and a little annoyed. How many times do they need to go over this? “Just watch me.”

 

 “I don’t want to!” The quiet one pulls back and the doll is briefly struck dumb at the sight of two big tears slowly trickling down his cheeks. “Not ever again. I think of you being hurt for me, because of me, and it hurts. Right here.” The quiet one puts a hand over his heart, an expression of confusion and grief on his face. “It hurts so much, more than anything ever has. It didn’t used to before, but now… now I… I don’t ever want to see you be hurt again. Especially not because of me.” This is the most the doll has ever heard the quiet one say at one time, and it’s more than a little overwhelming.

 

“But…” the doll protests, “this is all I can do for you, don’t you understand? I can’t help you any other way. I’m not… I’m not strong enough…” He bites his lip, trying to fight back tears. “I can’t touch you, I can’t hug you, I can’t do anything else but watch as She hurts you, over and over, and it’s not fair, it’s not, it’s _not_.”

 

“But it’s fair if She hurts _you_?”

 

“That’s different-“

 

“It’s _not_.” The quiet conviction in the other doll’s voice is enough to silence the doll momentarily. “Do you want Her to do to me what She just did to you in your place?”

 

The doll feels like he’s just been punched in the stomach at the thought, and then notices the quiet one leveling him with a knowing look. He sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Touché.” He has no idea what the word means or why it just jumped into his head, but it seems appropriate for the situation.

 

“If they,” the quiet one gestures at the other four dolls outside, who are intensely observing the scene unfolding in his cage, “understood, I know… I _know_ they would tell you the same thing. You don’t have to do everything yourself, smaller one. Let yourself be protected for once. Isn’t that what you said love is all about?”

 

The doll suddenly feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. “Are… are you… are you saying…?”

 

A tiny, soft, shy smile lifts the corners of the quiet one’s pink lips. The doll’s never seen him smile before. He thinks it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. Then, instead of replying with words, the quiet one leans down and gently presses his forehead to the doll’s for a long, glorious moment, which seems to last both an eternity and a mere split second. All too soon, he pulls back and touches a gentle finger to the doll’s wet cheek ( _when did he start to cry again?_ ), before he gathers the smaller doll to his chest, tucks his head under his chin, and holds him close as his whole body begins to shake with the force of his near-silent sobs. 

 

Slender fingers thread their way into his hair, and in response, the doll instinctively reaches up and latches onto the quiet one’s sweater with the last remaining dregs of his strength, desperate to have something to hold onto as all the stress and pain and fear and grief and uncertainty he’d been hiding away deep inside comes pouring out all at once. Meanwhile, a complicated combination of joy and thankfulness and relief and hope and love also bubble up and mix with his other feelings until they’re no longer indistinguishable from each other and they all come spilling over in an unstoppable torrent of pure emotion.

 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there on the hard floor of the quiet one’s cage, locked in that desperate, tender embrace, but the doll’s sobs gradually ease, replaced by simple, bone-deep weariness. His eyelids start to droop shut of their own accord, despite his best attempts to stay awake. Who knows when he’ll get another chance to touch someone like this again?

 

“Sleep, smaller one,” he hears the quiet one’s soft voice murmur reassuringly into his ear. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

No more words are said for the rest of the night. None are needed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Things are so different after the quiet one becomes More as well. So much better. They’re not necessarily _good_ , not even remotely, but after being so lonely for so very long, just having someone to actually talk to during the long nights while She is away is a gift the doll will never, ever take for granted.

 

The quiet one never again speaks as much as he did during the night he and the doll spent together, preferring to still stay almost completely silent most nights, but the doll can tell the quiet one is actually actively listening to him now when he tries to initiate dialog instead of tuning him out the way the other dolls do. The doll quickly becomes an expert in reading his body language and the minute changes in his facial expressions, and they can soon carry on an entire conversation with the quiet one barely speaking ten words the entire time.

 

The doll soon learns that beneath his stoic demeanor, the quiet one possesses an incredibly gentle, loving heart, full of empathy and kindness for everyone around him. When the doll just can’t take seeing the others in pain anymore and tries to go back to taking their punishment, it takes just one particular Look from the quiet one for him to back down. He hates letting Her think She frightened him into submission, that She won, but he hates the thought of the quiet one suffering because of him even more.

 

“I dislike seeing them hurt as much as you do, smaller one,” the quiet one says one night as the doll paces agitatedly around his cage, too worked up to keep still after She damaged Her favorite so badly he still hasn’t regained consciousness. “But they’re built to endure it. We all are. Taking it all onto yourself won’t solve anything.”

 

“I know, I know.” The doll runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, and glances at the jagged hole that now makes up the front of his cage, only barely suppressing a shudder. She never bothered to replace the glass after She hurled him through it; he suspects She keeps it that way on purpose as an unspoken threat. “I _know_ , but that still doesn’t make me feel any better.” He kicks at the wall of his cage angrily.

  
The quiet one nods understandingly. He walks up to the chain link fence that closes off the front of his cage, and places a hand on it, the closest they can get to each other. “Talk?”

 

The doll brightens up, knowing that the quiet one is trying to cheer him up in the only way he can, and launches into a mostly one-sided discourse about the word “canary” and what it could possibly mean. The quiet one thinks it’s some kind of plant, while the doll is positive it’s a creature of some sort.

 

“I think it’s a color!” a chipper, completely unexpected voice chimes in. As one, the doll and the quiet one turn to see the loud one sitting cross-legged on the floor of his cage, looking at them both expectantly. “I mean, only makes sense, right? Canary. Doesn’t that just sound like some kind of bright color to you? I like it. It’s fun to say. Canary, canary, canary!” 

 

“Would you all _be quiet_ ,” comes an annoyed grumble from the marked one’s cage. “Some of us are trying to sleep here.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The doll isn’t sure whether the loud one just needed a model for what proper conversation looked like in order to start participating himself, or if seeing the doll and the quiet one’s interactions awakened something deep inside him that began to crave interpersonal contact. Either way, the other doll starts inserting himself into their late night conversations more and more. Even on the nights where he stays quiet, the doll can usually spy him sitting and listening intently to what is being said, instead of always numbly staring off into space like he used to.

 

And then, one day, She breaks the quiet one’s bones so badly that some of them poke through his skin in nasty, bloody shards of white. He’s not quite hurt seriously enough that She has to cage him with someone else, but She does shove a hunk of something black and hard into his cage with him when She’s done for the day. The quiet one can’t quite manage to eat it yet with both his arms broken the way they are, but the doll feels a little better knowing it’ll be there for him when he’s recovered enough to pick it up. He just wishes desperately he could help in some way, too.

 

“Are you okay?” the loud one asks out of the blue, sounding oddly worried as he shmushes himself up against the glass of his cage so he can see into the quiet one’s better. “That looks… really bad.”

 

“No,” the quiet one replies bluntly. “But I will be eventually.”

 

“Oh, good.” The loud one beams. “I’m glad.” He stops abruptly, smile fading. “I’m glad…?” He glances back at the quiet one, and then at the doll. His head tilts quizzically. “Why am I glad?”

 

The doll and the quiet one exchange shocked, cautiously hopeful looks as the other doll continues thinking out loud.

 

“It… it feels like something I should feel about Her,” the loud one is saying confusedly. “Love, maybe? I’m glad you’re okay because I love you?” He perks up. “Yeah! That must be it! I love you! Like I love Her! I… actually, no.” He frowns suddenly. “I… don’t think I love Her very much anymore. In fact, I don’t think I love Her at all. Not when She keeps doing stuff like this to you.” He gestures at the thin splinters of bone piercing the quiet one’s pallid skin, genuine anger creasing his brow for the first time ever before it’s quickly wiped away by another smile.

 

“Hey, broken one.” He taps on the glass wall of his cage, grinning widely. “I love you! Just wanted you to know that.” The quiet one doesn’t reply, but only because the doll can tell he’s too overcome with emotion to speak.

 

“Oh, and hey, I love you, smaller one!” the loud one calls to him cheerfully.

 

"I love you, too,” the doll replies, valiantly trying to keep the happiness bubbling up inside his heart from overflowing from his eyes.

 

A thoughtful look appears on the loud one’s face. “You do,” he says slowly, as if remembering something long forgotten. “You have for awhile now, haven’t you.” It’s not really a question.

 

The doll nods wordlessly in response, smiling softly.

 

A bright, blinding grin crinkles the corners of the loud one’s eyes. “Thank you! … Wait, why are you crying? Was it something I said?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

If the doll thought he was persistent in trying to coax the other dolls into conversation, he has nothing on the loud one once he’s become More, as they’re now officially calling… whatever’s happened to them. He tries talking to _everyone_ , regardless of whether they answer or not, to the point that the doll honestly wants to gag him sometimes if just to get some peace and quiet. He can’t really find it in himself to get too annoyed, though; he knows how exhilarating it is to experience all these new emotions and feelings for the first time. 

 

And honestly, the loud one is just so upbeat, outgoing, sweet, and inexhaustibly curious that it’s hard to hold anything against him for too long. The doll desperately wishes he could cuddle him, just once, but since he knows that likely won’t happen unless one of them gets horribly injured, he contents himself with indulging the loud one’s desire to talk as much as possible instead. They both enjoy it, and the quiet one enjoys listening to them talk. It’s a win-win for everyone.  

 

Of course, given that he’s so outgoing and curious and talkative, sometimes the loud one isn’t the most… cautious of individuals. “Trying to talk to everyone” unfortunately sometimes includes Her when the loud one is feeling particularly bold, despite the doll and the quiet one’s repeated attempts to break him of the habit.

 

“And another thing!” the loud one is saying, firmly held in place by Her magic in the chair as She rifles through Her tools and gets more and more visibly annoyed with every word that comes out of his mouth. “Where do we come from? I’ve always wondered about that. How do you make us? Can you show us? Why did you give your favorite dimples but not me? And how come-?”

 

“For the last time, shut _up_!” She snarls, snatching up a knife and slashing it across the loud one’s throat in one abrupt motion, opening up a deep gash that immediately starts weeping crimson. The loud one struggles to breathe, a choked gurgling sound emanating from his mouth along with a heavy stream of red, his eyes wide and shocked and scared.

 

“Oh, brilliant,” She mutters to herself with a roll of Her eyes, dropping the knife and pulling out her needle and thread. “Just what I need, another defective _doll_.” She viciously jabs the needle into the wound she made in the loud one’s throat, and even though he currently can’t make a sound, the doll knows the loud one is screaming.

 

He’s only barely conscious by the time She finishes haphazardly sewing up his throat, having nearly choked on his own blood at least three times. The doll is nearly beside himself with worry; he’s never seen a wound quite like this before, but it looks… bad. Really bad. He tries to stay as calm as he can as She picks up the loud one and dumps him into the marked one’s cage, but when she takes up the effigy and starts violently stabbing it over and over with a long needle for the rest of the day, the mind-numbing pain is an almost welcome distraction from the panic that threatens to overwhelm him.

 

Once She’s gone and the doll recovers enough to think straight again, he scrambles as close as he can to his window so that he can see inside the marked one’s cage to check up on the loud one. The other doll lies in a crumpled heap on the floor near the far side of the cage, a small puddle of red pooling under the ragged slash in his throat. His eyes are half open, but are unseeing and glassy, his chest rising and falling in sporadic, violent movements as he struggles for every single breath of air his lungs manage to draw in.

 

The doll bites his lip helplessly, exchanging worried glances with the quiet one before movement out of the corner of his eye has him looking back to the marked one’s cage. The tall, tattooed doll regards the loud one for a long moment, head cocked, before closing his eyes. When he opens them, they’ve gone from the unnatural black Xs Her favorite also exhibits to a warm, dark, human brown. He lightly steps closer, crouching down on his hands and the balls of his feet to get a closer look at the newcomer. He circles the inert body once or twice, still in his crouch, almost animalistic in his movements, before he finally sits down. He delicately reaches out a tattooed hand and lightly pokes the loud one’s ear, quickly withdrawing once the other’s eyelids flutter at the touch, finally opening completely.

 

The loud one’s glazed eyes take a few moments longer than usual to focus, before traveling up, up, up to see the marked one gazing intently back at him. He blinks once, owlishly, and then boldly reaches up to curiously trace the sharp, swirly design etched under the marked one’s right eye.

 

 _Hi_ , he mouths, no sound emerging from his mouth at all. He grins dazedly, lightly patting the other’s cheek once before his hand falls back to the ground, limp and still. Or at least, it would have, if the marked one hadn’t caught it right before it hit the floor.

 

“Hi yourself.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The doll can’t help the pang of longing that goes through him when he sees the marked one eventually pull the injured doll close so that he can rest his head against his leg, or the pleased, weary smile that flits across the loud one’s face when the other starts running his inked fingers through his hair. The feeling is quickly swept away in the wake of the sheer relief that soon washes over him, however, and he has to admit that the marked one does an admirable job in looking after the other doll. Particularly when it comes to the matter of making sure the loud one doesn’t injure himself even further when trying to communicate in the absence of his voice, even going so far as to bodily clap a hand over his mouth when the loud one tries to speak _yet again_. A faint smirk even lifts one corner of his mouth as the doll launches into a long scolding about recklessness and idiocy and _if you **ever** do something that stupid again, so help me-!_

 

It takes days upon days for the loud one’s voice to mend fully, and the absence of it is strangely disconcerting to the doll. Like something important has just… vanished. Even after it heals, a long, jagged white scar bisects his throat for some time, a constant reminder of what happens when they push Her too far. The loud one seems to have actually taken the lesson to heart, because he never again tries to speak to Her when he’s out of his cage.

 

After She leaves, though, he inevitably turns back into the same bright chatterbox he’s always been, and the doll is unspeakably grateful for that. He’s pretty sure the quiet one and the marked one feel the same way, though they never actually say it. Speaking of the marked one, the other three dolls’ late night conversations and then the night spent with the loud one must have triggered his own Becoming, because after the loud one is removed from his cage and starts speaking again, he also begins to engage with the others when She is gone more and more. Beneath his intimidating and fierce exterior, the marked one reveals himself to be surprisingly bashful and sensitive, though not nearly to the extent of the quiet one. He also proves to be extremely protective once those instincts have awoken, so much so that the doll can almost _feel_ the silent fury emanating from his cage when the others are in the chair or on the table, and it just makes the doll love him even more.

 

However, even, as the four of them connect even closer to each other, the littlest still remains impassive to their attempts to reach out to him. Her favorite, though… he withdraws from them deliberately. Almost as if he’s trying to protect himself from something. The doll’s never seen this kind of reaction to becoming More before, and it worries him. What could be causing it? 

 

He gets the chance to find out when, during one prolonged session with Her favorite, She drives dozens of glass shards into his flesh, over and over, until one hits something inside of him that it wasn’t supposed to, causing him to scream and scream and keep screaming until She removes the offending shard, blood pouring at an alarming rate out of the injury. She staples it shut, but still deposits him in the marked one’s cage at the end of the day, presumably to ensure he heals correctly.

 

The rest of the dolls immediately congregate at the front of their cages as soon as She’s gone, except for the marked one, who hurriedly rushes to Her favorite’s side, crouching down, hands hovering but not touching. If he did, he’d cut himself open on the jagged glass still jutting out of the other doll’s skin at random intervals.

 

“What do I do?” he asks over Her favorite's soft, agonized moans, glancing at the other three anxiously.

 

“The glass,” the quiet one says immediately.

 

“It needs to come out,” the doll clarifies when the quiet one doesn’t elaborate.

 

“Won’t that make a huge mess?” the loud one pipes up, arms wrapped around his middle worriedly. “And hurt him even more?”

 

“His body’s just going to keep trying to heal around it and cause him more pain until it’s gone,” the doll points out. “Best to get rid of it sooner rather than later.”

 

The marked one nods wordlessly and reaches for the first piece of glass. As his hand approaches, however, her favorite suddenly lurches upright into a sitting position and begins to scramble away, smearing red everywhere. “Stay away! Don’t touch me! Don’t… don’t…” He hits the wall and curls into tight, defensive ball, his bleeding, trembling arms held up in front of him as a weak, ineffective shield. “Don’t. Don’t touch me, don’t, don’t…”  

 

“He needs to,” the doll coaxes gently, heart breaking slightly at the pain and fear in the other’s face and voice. “We need to get the glass out of your skin for you to heal properly. The pain will go away faster if you let him help you.”

 

“ _No!_ ” The sudden vitriol in Her favorite’s voice takes them all aback as his head turns to face the general direction of the doll’s cage. “I know what you’re planning, smaller one. You think that just because my eyes can’t see the same things you can that I’m an idiot.”

 

He snickers to himself before continuing. “But I’m not. I’m not, I’m _not_. I can see what matters. You’re different. You’re all different now. And it’s because of _you_. This is your fault. You’ve changed them all. You’re not like me anymore. If I let him touch me, I know you’ll change me, too. I can feel you already changing me, just by talking to me, being around me. I’ve felt it creeping up on me for so long, stronger and stronger…” He suddenly doubles over, eyes squeezed tightly shut as his hands reach up to clutch at his hair.

 

“What’s _happening_ to me?” he giggles hysterically, tears leaking from his tightly shut eyes. He starts to compulsively run his hands up and down his arms, slicing his palms open on the glass. “Why doesn’t it like it? Why does it hurt so much? I hate it, I hate it, I _hate it_ , make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it-!” The marked one grabs his wrists, unmindful of the glass that begins to cut into his own skin, and tugs him into a firm, gentle embrace, trying to keep him from hurting himself further while simultaneously offering what comfort he can to the panicking doll.

 

“No! Stop, _stop_!” Her favorite thrashes weakly in the marked one’s grip, the glass embedded in his skin cutting deeper into the other’s as a result. The marked one winces, but doesn’t budge an inch. “It doesn’t like it, _it doesn’t like it_ , it’s hurting me! Stop it, let me go, let _go_ , no, nonononono _no_ , stop, please, it hurts! It hurts…” His manic laughter gradually morphs into harsh, body-wracking sobs, tears pouring steadily down his cheeks as the marked one continues to hold him firmly immobile.

 

And then, suddenly, he convulses, shudders, doubles over again just before a loud, inhuman _shriek_ erupts from his throat. Even though the doll is no stranger to screams by now, this one still manages to send chills down his spine. He actually has to take a step back, overwhelmed by the power in that voice, almost as if something other than Her favorite is also screaming. It’s a sound of complete and utter agony, a single note held until the injured doll has no more breath in his lungs and he finally goes limp, slumping bonelessly against the marked one.

 

The taller doll cradles the smaller body against his chest and stares at him with wide, alarmed eyes. The doll is pretty sure the rest of them, including himself, are all mirroring that expression right now as the awful sound finishes reverberating throughout the room.

 

“…Please tell me someone knows what just happened.” The loud one, predictably, is the first to speak.

 

“Her magic…” the marked one breathes in wonder, not taking his eyes off Her favorite. “It always… wrapped around him tighter than the rest of us. Like these.” He tugs absently at one of the restraints anchoring him to his cage. “Except more. Many, many more.” He looks back at the other dolls, the Xs in his eyes seeming more pronounced than usual. “Most of them are gone now. He still has more than the rest of us, but compared to before, it’s like… it’s like he was suffocating, but now he can finally breathe.”

 

“Will he be okay?” the doll inquires worriedly, watching blood steadily drip off Her favorite’s fingertips and wondering if he hasn’t just caused something horrible.

 

“I’m not sure, but…” The marked one scrutinizes Her favorite’s inert body for a long moment, as if studying something only he can see. “I think so. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

 

As if on cue, Her favorite begins to stir. The marked one props him up against the wall, but keeps a close eye on him should he need to keep the other doll from harming himself again. The injured doll’s eyes finally open, and he draws in a deep, startled, shaky breath, as if a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He glances around, then down at the shards sticking out of his arms and chest. His brow furrows, and he instinctively reaches over with one hand to try to yank one of them out, when a tattooed one catches his wrist again. Two sets of hexed eyes meet.

 

“Is… is it okay if I help you now?” the marked one finally asks, gentle.

 

The smile that slowly spreads across Her favorite’s face is so different from any they’ve seen on him before. “I… think you already have.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Her favorite says to the doll a couple nights later, after he has a chance to settle back into his own cage. “For what I said earlier.”

 

“You mean about me… changing everyone?” the doll inquires, moving closer to the front of his cage curiously.

 

Her favorite nods. “Her magic… it was… the only way I can describe it was that it was panicking. Because I’m so attuned to it, I could sense what it… felt, for lack of a better term. And I can tell you that it really doesn’t like what you’ve been doing to everyone. So I lashed out, because that’s what it was doing. Trying to preserve itself. It was already worn down to a mere thread by the time She put me in with him.” He waves a hand in the direction of the marked one’s cage.  

 

“But… I haven’t been doing anything to anyone,” the doll protests, slightly defensive.

 

Her favorite scoffs. “Look around you. I know the rest of you can’t see exactly what I can, but I know you can sense it. We’ve become something different. Something More than what She originally created. The fact that we’re even having this conversation right now is proof enough of that. And you were the catalyst for that. The counterfeit emotions that She created in us just can’t compare against the real thing. You were the one that showed us that what She’s doing to us is wrong. That we can love people other than Her. We were never supposed to question or become aware of that. Ever. We even had failsafes built into our minds specifically designed to _keep_ us from doing that. Yet you still did. And just by being around us, you made the rest of us Become, too.”

 

“He’s right, smaller one,” the quiet one speaks up softly. “That night, when you explained everything to me for the first time… I never would have figured that out on my own. It took you to finally make me see.”

 

The doll can’t keep a flustered blush from spreading over his face, embarrassed at the sudden attention but also more than a little pleased. It’s possible he might have also done a happy little wiggle. “I’m not sure how it happened myself, really,” he confesses. “One moment I was like the rest of you, and then the next… when She brought the littlest in for the first time… well, I don’t know what happened, but something transformed inside of me, and I felt. For the first time, I _felt_.”

 

He looks over to the littlest’s cage, and feels his mood deflate a little. Well, he can’t call him the littlest anymore, now can he? He’s gotten so big that She finally had to give him new clothes because the other ones just didn’t fit right anymore, and he’s bigger even than the marked one now. The doll can’t help the odd sense of pride and affection he feels when he looks at the littlest-now-tallest, but there’s also sadness as well. Because even after all this time, even though the doll’s tried so, so hard… the other is still just a simple doll. The doll’s heart hurts whenever he looks at him for too long, yearning for the spark of recognition and life to come into the other’s eyes the way it has for all the other dolls. Why won’t he wake up? Why won’t he become More, too?

 

“He’s different. She never made anything quite like him before,” Her favorite says, as if he’s sensed the direction of the doll’s thoughts. “He’s always… changing. But I think he’s stopped, now.” A small, mysterious, knowing smile appears on his face. “Give him time. He’ll come around.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

So the doll waits.

 

The doll endures. He endures the constant abuse, the pain, the tears, the shattered bones and spilled blood, turning every ounce of pain she inflicts upon him into an act of rebellion, the fuel he utilizes to continue living on. _You cannot break me. You never will._

 

The doll loves. He loves the other dolls and lets them know it as much as he can, determined that they’ll never know the loneliness and isolation that he felt back when he was the only one who was More, and tolerating their joking complaints about how he’s overbearing and overly-clingy with indulgent affection. _You say I taught you what it means to love, but really, you taught me first. I owe everything to you._

 

The doll waits. _Please. Please._

 

_Please._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Okay, who’s throwing stuff at me?” Her favorite demands one night as they all lie or sit propped up against something in their cages, each in varying degrees of pain. “Quit it, smaller one. I’m trying to convalesce here.”

 

“ _Me_?” the doll squawks in indignation, immediately regretting it when his poor, bruised ribs scream in protest. “Do I look like I can throw anything at you right now? …Sorry, rhetorical question,” he adds sheepishly, seeing Her favorite’s broken eyes narrow in annoyance. “Regardless, I don’t appreciate being accused of something I didn’t do.”

 

“Alright, then you,” Her favorite points at the quiet one, who’s currently cradling a snapped arm to his chest, left eye swollen almost completely shut. “Stop throwing things at me.”

 

The quiet one glances at the doll in clear bewilderment. “Pretty sure he didn’t do it, either,” the doll answers for him.

 

“Well it can’t be _them_.” Her favorite gestures at the loud one and the marked one, watching the scene unfold behind the smooth, unbroken glass of their prisons. “So obviously, it has to be one of you two. Just fess up, come on, I’m tired.”  

 

Her favorite huffs crossly when all he gets for a reply is silence, shuffling around so that he’s sitting with his back to the room. “Well, I’m not hallucinating; _someone’s_ throwing things at me. And I’m not talking to the rest of you until someone confesses.”

 

A low giggle draws the attention of the doll’s sensitive hearing, coming from his right. From… the tallest’s cage? Interest piqued, the doll drags his injured body closer to the front of his cage, peering out into the dark room beyond. What he sees makes his jaw drop slightly.

 

The tallest peers out of the bars of his cage, rolling pieces of bark that he obviously pried off the dark, decaying tree situated near the back of his cage between the fingers of one large hand. As the doll watches, the tallest turns slightly and their eyes meet. A spark of mischievous glee ignites in the depths of the tallest’s eyes as he holds a finger to his lips, a little half grin appearing on them behind it. He then sticks his arm out of the bars, hefts a small piece of bark, and tosses it with pinpoint accuracy over to Her favorite’s open cage, where it bounces soundlessly off his head and falls to the floor with a dull clatter.

 

A low, irritated growl faintly shakes Her favorite’s shoulders, but true to his word, he doesn’t say anything and doesn’t turn around. Triumphant, the tallest turns back to the doll, grinning widely, eyes bright and full of affectionate warmth, crooked smile sweet and spirited and just a little bit shy, and for a brief moment, the doll sees a tiny, lanky figure where the tallest now stands.

 

_Oh. Oh, **there** you are, little one. _

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Took you long enough,” Her favorite grumbles after the doll gets enough of a handle on his emotions to properly introduce the final member of their group to the others. “But if you do that again, I _am_ retaliating.”

 

“Please,” the tallest scoffs. “I’d like to see you-” A piece of bark hits him right between the eyes.

 

Her favorite smirks as the marked one applauds admiringly and the loud one bursts into laughter, while the quiet one wordlessly rolls his eyes in the background.

 

The doll just sits back and looks at them all, one by one. And he smiles.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, I commend you. Please consider leaving me a comment to tell me what you thought!


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